By David L. Brown
It’s not often that I am compelled to wax poetic, but in this holiday season, this one of 2008 in particular, I felt the urge to revisit that old favorite “The Night Before Christmas,” or “A Visit from St. Nicolas.” I have changed the title a bit to fit our present situation and you may notice the words are different, too. Enjoy, and have as Merry a Christmas as you can in these difficult times.
A Christmas Miracle In Detroit, or
A Visit from St. Paulson
Twas the night before Christmas, when all through da City
Not a creature was stirring, not even a kitty.
The auto execs were all hanging on hopes
Of generous bailouts from government dopes.
The workers were nestled all snug in their beds
As visions of overtime danced in their heads.
Mamma in her housecoat and I in my cap
Had just settled down to watch television crap.
When out on the lawn there arose such a noise
I sprang from the couch thinking “Mus’ be da boys.”
I rushed to the window and gazed in dismay
To see that there still was no Change on the way.
The Moon on the street cast a terrible spell,
Set the city a’glimmer like the fires of hell.
When what through my drug-induced alcohol haze
Should appear but a limo, its headlights ablaze.
The driver jumped out and opened a door
And who should appear but the man I adore.
He was dressed like a Bro’, all gold chains and black
And carried a large money bag on his back.
I jumped up with joy at this sight for sore eyes,
For I knew that my union had delivered the prize.
The man who could halt a bank run in a flash,
And wrap up a Congress like a bundle of trash.
A man who could never be matched or outdone,
It could be none other than Henry Paulson.
He hoisted his sack and gave it a push
And out jumped his help mate, George W. Bush.
The two jolly elves were so pleasant to see
That I cracked a fresh bottle of sweet Tennessee.
I opened the door to welcome my guests
And offered a toast using Jack’s very best.
Hank reached for the bottle and took several swigs
While the other hung back and thought of drill rigs.
Then the Treasury Sec. laughed, a jolly old monkey,
And pulled from his sack a barrel of money.
He threw it around all over the street,
And the neighbors were on it like weevils on wheat.
They snatched up the billions in taxpayer cash
And ran to the WalMart to turn it to flash.
Big flatscreen teevees and cases of booze,
Thousands of movies and basketball shoes,
Hundreds of burgers and buckets of chicken,
Enough of that junk food to make a moose sicken.
Detroit was rescued, the world wouldn’t end,
Gas guzzlers would roll from Detroit’s lines again.
The fat cat execs and corrupt union bosses
Could rest in the knowledge they’d suffer no losses.
So thus ends our tale of Christmas perfection,
Of glorious salvation through mass cash injection.
Santa in his sleigh didn’t show up this year,
But Hank Paulson did bringing holiday cheer.
As he climbed in his limo and slammed shut the door,
I heard him exclaim, “Don’t worry, there’s more!